


maybe we can sleep in

by astrolesbian



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, Trans Male Character, that's it that's the fic, they cuddle, this is literally so self indulgent......., trans!Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 11:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5965714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrolesbian/pseuds/astrolesbian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>July always sinks into Paris like a cloud of steam, but this year seems hotter than the last -- it’s almost getting up to 35 C sometimes, enough to hurt the bare soles of your feet if you make the mistake of stepping onto pavement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	maybe we can sleep in

**Author's Note:**

> this is probably the gayest thing i've ever written . . . nice
> 
> just for reference -- i picture grantaire like [this](http://littlewadoo.tumblr.com/post/103214577483/i-usually-go-with-a-short-stocky-grantaire-but) but stockier and w chub -- but my R's face and hair are exactly like that. feel free to imagine him with the tattoos that are in my tattoo verse as well. and enjolras looks like [this](http://littlewadoo.tumblr.com/post/132959936238/unhooking-the-stars-this-fic-is-really) \-- upper left corner.
> 
> title from "banana pancakes" by jack johnson.

July always sinks into Paris like a cloud of steam, but this year seems hotter than the last -- it’s almost getting up to 35 C sometimes, enough to hurt the bare soles of your feet if you make the mistake of stepping onto pavement. Grantaire loves it. He’s always loved hot weather, and sunshine, and humidity, even if it turns his curls from slightly messy into a full-on frizzy disaster. Mostly it’s because it’s impossible to shiver in weather like this, unless you’re being kissed particularly well, and Grantaire hates shivering, just like he hates the feeling of cheap knitted gloves you buy in shopping malls, and burlap. Sensory issues, and all that.

Enjolras isn’t too keen on hot weather, though, and his disgruntled face whenever they wake up to see the thermometer inching into the thirties is enough to set Grantaire laughing first thing in the morning. It’s a nice enough way to start the day, especially when he gets to kiss the grumpiness off Enjolras’s face. They’re always tangled together -- Enjolras is still an octopus when he sleeps, even when it’s hot out -- the sheets somewhere around their ankles, all the windows open to catch a nonexistent breeze.

Sometimes they can’t stay in bed. Grantaire has morning shifts at the Musain whenever Mme Houcheloup wants him to, and Enjolras has to go into his internship at the non-profit five days a week, and work nights at the bookstore with Feuilly besides. Somedays there’s only time enough to grab a shower and eat something as they run out the door, which disrupts the laziness of the heat, the oppressiveness of it. Grantaire always finds himself running late on these mornings, reaching the Musain in barely enough time, covered in sweat from running and having to change into a spare shirt before he can start. Enjolras’s curls always start to frizz, just like Grantaire’s, the baby hairs sticking up until he irritably slicks them down with gel. He doesn’t even bother wearing his nice shirts to work; he just tucks them into his bag and tugs one of Grantaire’s tank tops over his head, intending to change when he gets there.

Grantaire likes the mornings when he doesn’t have to do anything, but Enjolras does; not because he likes to rub it in but because he wakes up to the sound of the shower turning off, and he can roll over and watch as Enjolras wanders back into the room with his sweatpants low on his waist, blotting his hair dry with a towel and smiling sleepily. His freckles get even more prominent in the summer, standing out dark against the light brown of his skin, scattered in groups across the tops of his shoulders and cheekbones and nose.

“Hey,” Grantaire will mumble, hoisting himself up onto his elbows and grinning, and Enjolras will grin back, going to work at putting on his binder.

“I made coffee,” Enjolras will say, or something of the like, and Grantaire will get out of bed and kiss him, fitting his hands against his hips, because he can, and it’s summer, and he’s got a beautiful boyfriend. Enjolras will laugh against his mouth, and gently push him back.

“I have to get ready, R.”

“I know,” Grantaire will say, and kiss him once more, for the hell of it, and because it makes his cheeks go dark. “I’ll make something to eat.”

Those mornings are nice. They’re soft in a way a lot of things aren’t, hazy with heat and steam from the bathroom and the way Enjolras smiles. Those are the mornings they usually end up with, both because the internship starts a little earlier than Grantaire’s morning shift and because Grantaire likes to stay in bed until the last possible minute, enjoying the heat and the way the sheets feel on his cheek. Sometimes he’ll wake up on his own, and other times it’ll be to Enjolras’s lips on his cheek or forehead or his hands combing the hair off his face. Grantaire pretends to sleep sometimes until he feels Enjolras’s hands, and then grins up at him cheekily, earning a laugh and a shove.

More rarely, Enjolras has the morning off and Grantaire has to get up for work, and Grantaire tugs himself out of bed and into the shower, and turns the water cold enough to make him yelp and wake up, but not cold enough to shiver. Showering isn’t the most pleasant sensory experience, so he uses Enjolras’s shampoo and lets the smell settle into the air, smiling when he comes out and towels off his hair and the smell stays hanging around him like a cloud of organic strawberries.

Enjolras is always still asleep when he gets out of the shower, covers kicked down to his feet, hair spilled over the pillow in a mess of blonde and curls and the slightest hint of brown roots. Grantaire fights the urge to get back into bed with him -- not even to sleep, just to watch him as he breathes, looking practically unfair, like a living work of art -- but Grantaire doesn’t disturb him except to press a light kiss to his forehead, getting dressed as quietly as he can. He really doesn’t need to bother -- Enjolras is a heavy sleeper once he gets going, and it’s hard to wake him up with anything other than an alarm clock. But it feels nice to do it quietly, more like something a boyfriend would do.

After all this time, he still gets a wild grin on his face at that word -- _boyfriend_. It’s a good word, he thinks. One of the best in the world.

And Grantaire will make himself some breakfast -- eggs and toast and jam or something -- and start a pot of coffee so it will be there when Enjolras wakes up, and he’ll be out the door, tucking his key into his back pocket and a baseball cap on top of his already-frizzy hair, and he’ll grin at the feeling of the heat settling onto his body, like a warm blanket. Enjolras will wake up later to find a pot of coffee that’s getting cold and a note saying _be back by noon -- lunch?_

Domestic is the word for it, Grantaire figures.

He likes those mornings, too.

This isn’t either of those mornings.

It’s still sticky-hot, the heat settling over them like something breathing, but the difference is it settles over _them_ \-- they are both here, together, still half asleep.

Grantaire grins, and hides it in the pillow.

Enjolras notices, of course, because he always does, and he grins sleepily. “Hey.”

Grantaire turns and blinks back up at him. “Hey,” he says, and kisses him good morning, softly enough that it’s not really much of a kiss, just a sweet brush of air. The morning is heavy enough around them to make Grantaire want to stay in bed all day, sleeping and sleeping and sleeping some more. He mentions this to Enjolras, who hums and shifts closer.

“That sounds nice,” he says, “but I have a better idea,” and then their mouths are pressed together again, and Enjolras’s hand is in Grantaire’s hair, smoothing through the bits at the back that always stick up after he sleeps.

It’s a lazy kind of kissing, with both of them lazy and pliant and moving closer together, Enjolras gripping the hair at the nape of Grantaire’s neck and Grantaire letting one hand come up to hold on to Enjolras’s hip, pulling him in, and Enjolras lets him, grinning as they kiss. Before it can get too much deeper than lazy Sunday morning kisses ought to be, Grantaire pulls back.

“Don’t you have a thing today?”

He hates mentioning it, because really he would much rather Enjolras forget the thing and stay in bed with him all day. Enjolras grins again, and moves his hand from Grantaire’s hair to brush his thumb against his cheek.

“No,” he says, finally. “I canceled.”

Grantaire furrows his brow. Normally he would have sat up by now, or at least gotten onto his elbows, so he could look Enjolras in the eye and figure out what’s happening that made his boyfriend, the person who always keeps dates, cancel something. “What?” he says, instead, brow furrowed. He doesn’t sit up. The heat is still curling around them, comfortingly.

Enjolras goes red, turning his head away. “I missed you,” he mumbles.

“I’m right here,” Grantaire says.

“I mean --” He looks frustrated. Words, despite popular belief, don’t always come easy to Enjolras. “This,” he says, and runs his thumb gently over Grantaire’s cheek. “I missed _this_.”

“You didn’t have to cancel for me,” Grantaire says, but there’s warmth spreading through his stomach.

Enjolras looks stubborn. “I did, though.”

Grantaire leans forward and kisses the tip of his nose. “Okay,” he says, nonplussed and flattered and not feeling the need to argue; the ever-present whisper of _not good enough for him_ silenced for the time being by the heat and the lazy comfort of lying here. “Want breakfast?”

Enjolras yawns. “No,” he says, then looks sheepish. “I mean -- stay? Here?”

Grantaire presses his mouth to Enjolras’s neck in answer, and Enjolras laughs, wrapping his arms around Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire grins, and pulls back.

“More sleep first,” he says, and Enjolras makes a noise of agreement, glancing over at the clock.

“Okay,” he says, and then, more softly, “just stay.”

“I will,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras’s head falls against Grantaire’s shoulder.

Grantaire lets his fingers dance, whisper-soft, against the bare, freckled skin of Enjolras’s back and shoulders, connecting freckle to freckle. After a few minutes, when he thinks Enjolras must be asleep again, he lets his hand settle, and lets his head drop back onto the pillow. It’s too hot, sweat appearing at the places their bodies touch, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything right now. Enjolras’s curls tickle his chin and he’s pretty hungry, and the sheet is wrapped around one of his ankles, and the way they’re sitting means his arm is eventually going to be asleep. It doesn’t matter.

This is enough, he thinks.

“I love you,” he says aloud.

Enjolras sits up with a jolt and looks at him. “R,” he says, an odd tremble in his voice, and Grantaire doesn’t even have time to be worried before Enjolras is kissing him, gentle and trembling and nothing like the lazy, hot kisses from before.

He pulls back. “Hey,” he says, and smiles, and reaches out to tap Enjolras’s nose, to hide how nervous he is. “Don’t feel like you have to say it back, or anything --”

“I love you,” Enjolras says, all in a rush, with incredible earnestness.

“Well, then,” Grantaire says, and swallows hard, suddenly feeling the weight of the words. Loving Enjolras is fine -- he’s been doing that for a good long while now, months and months. Enjolras loving him is a new development, one that makes it a little bit harder and a little bit easier to breathe, both at once. “That’s -- well.”

“I love you,” Enjolras says again. “I canceled the appointment. And I’m here, and you’re here, and -- I love you,” and he looks frustrated with himself, unable to find the words right now, when it matters.

“Wow,” Grantaire says. “That’s -- that’s pretty awesome.”

And then Enjolras laughs, the laugh that means something, the one that turns into a mess of snorts as it gets going. And it’s summer, and Grantaire has a beautiful boyfriend, and that boyfriend loves him, so he laughs too, and kisses him again -- and Enjolras knots his fingers into his hair all over again, and says “let’s not go back to sleep,” and Grantaire rolls onto his back so Enjolras is kneeling over him, and grins up at him, and says _okay._

And it’s too hot for sex, really, and their hair gets too frizzy and their bodies get sticky with sweat, but Enjolras keeps laughing little happy laughs that turn into gasps when Grantaire kisses his neck, and their hands wind together as they kiss, and Grantaire thinks about forever for a second, without an ounce of irony. It’s enough.

“I love you,” Grantaire says again, when it’s over, and Enjolras grins back, scrunching up his nose.

“Awesome,” he says, and squeezes their joined hands. “Let’s make pancakes.”

 


End file.
